


If Wishing Made It So

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone lives, Feels, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Soft Jaskier, protective Geralt, they just love each other a lot okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: Geralt stared down into the ravine and the glittering rocks below and wished the rumors of the Witcher’s missing emotions were true. He wished for a lot of things, then, staring down at the smear of blue silk stained red.None of them came true.———-On a hunt that goes bad, Geralt is forced to imagine a world where his bard will no longer walk at his side.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 77
Kudos: 2283
Collections: Witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact about me: If I watch something that makes me emotional, I produce angsty fics 
> 
> Get ready to hurt.

He knew it was a mistake before he saw the blood. 

The signs were there. They always were in the past tense. Geralt had known in his gut that something was off with the men who’d volunteered to bring them to the vampire nest. After all, what human would willingly venture into certain death?

(Besides Jaskier, of course. Gods help them if his level of stupid bravery was contagious. )

Geralt tolerated their presence merely because he was impatient to get this hunt over and done with. He needed to find a nice inn or cottage before it got too cold so he could be certain Jaskier wouldn’t be forced to winter out in the open. The idea had taken root after a particularly bad cold that had trapped the bard in his bedroll for days. Roach, he knew, would appreciate the extra rest and Geralt had been quietly squirreling away his coin so they would have enough to spend a comfortable few months on the coast. 

Finding the vampire nest had been a lucky break.

The amount of coin the reasonably prosperous village would be able to pay them was enough to ensure they’d have a nice nest egg to fall back on should anything happen. In fact, Geralt had been downright chipper until the mayor mentioned that they would be escorted to the vampires by some of the villagers and, of course, none of them were interested in his reasons why that was such a bad idea. All it took was a glance over to where Jaskier was placing a carefully woven dandelion chain on a little girls head and all his arguments about the dangers of beasts were ignored. 

Damn cheerful bard. 

Geralt was still getting used to the idea that he could enjoy traveling with another person. Especially someone like Jaskier. It’d taken time, but the man has grown on him. Like a mold or fungus, but grown on him all the same. The bard had fallen into his life like a tiny drunken starburst and refused to go away. 

So now, like Roach, Jaskier belonged to him. With him. 

Even if he might never get the guts to say it out loud. 

Looking back on the last day before everything had gone wrong, Geralt would try to fill in the gaps his distractions had kept him from noticing at the time. The way Jaskier’s eyes were beginning to crinkle at the corners when he laughed. How he’d toss out lines of poetry that got more and more ridiculous the longer the walked. The soft smile he seemed to reserve just for when he caught Geralt watching him. 

All precious and so, so fragile. 

He hadn’t thought long about the way the villagers watched his movements carefully because he expected their mistrust. It was smart to be wary of his kind. He expected them to assume he’d be violent and untrustworthy because that’s all humans seemed to think Witcher’s were capable of. 

What he  _ hadn’t _ truly noticed was the way their eyes lingered on Jaskier a little longer than necessary. Not when his mind was filled with the trials of the fight ahead and the promise of the future he’d planned. 

Jaskier was unusually somber when they reached the section of the pass where Geralt would go on alone and the humans would return to the village. He could see the refusal to leave growing in his expression but Geralt would never risk letting Jaskier this close to danger if he could help it. 

“Be safe,” the bard finally whispered. 

“Hmm.”

_ Why, why hadn’t he said more? Why couldn’t he for once in his damn life say what he felt? _

Now it was too late. 

___________________________

It’d taken most that evening and night to take out the nest. There had been a much larger infestation than the villagers had expected and Geralt could feel the familiar burn of exhaustion slowing the satisfaction of ending a threat. The bones and partially decomposing bodies had been enough to chase away any guilt at the violence that always lingered at his fingertips. He was so used to the blood he’d forgotten what it was like to see the features beneath. 

No one had ever bothered to look past his sins. Not until Jaskier.

For that alone, he would never be able to repay the bard. For that and a million other kindnesses, he would never forget him. The hurt and acid that dripped from his lips as easily as blood from a wound were scars he would never forgive himself for causing. Geralt would spend his whole life trying to be worth the faith and trust that kept Jaskier at his side.

His mind was full of images of the excitement in the bard’s eyes when Geralt told him his plans. He knew the man didn’t enjoy the hardships of the road despite the adventure it promised. A whole winter spent next to warm fire and with a belly full of hot food was a luxury neither of them had managed in years.

Geralt followed the trail through the dense pine woods, nose full of the scent of fir and moss and the iron tang of blood from his armor. He’d managed to avoid the worst of the injuries that usually came with tangling with vampires. Yennefer’s charmed metal collar had come in handy--even if he expected the gift had been another one of her jokes. Still, he couldn’t argue with the results when he was walking away with only a few scrapes.

He followed the game trail that would lead back to the camp where he’d left Jaskier and Roach with the other villagers. By now, Jaskier had probably either driven them to distraction or earned a group of friends for life. It was that thought that signalled the first of many clues that things were not right back in the camp.

There was no music. No singing.

After years of traveling, Geralt relished the silence that fell around his companion on occasion. The reasons were few--food (although that was not always guaranteed), sleep, or if some verse struck him as particularly complicated. Even those moments felt rare against the seemingly unending monologues that had someone transitioned from infuriating to comforting.

Now the silence felt like a tragedy.

The heart he wasn’t supposed to feel was pounding in his chest as he raced to cross the distance between himself and the makeshift camp, torn between fear of taking his time and keeping them from hearing his approach. He managed to get to the treeline with his footsteps covered by the sounds of unfamiliar voices laughing and cursing in equal turn.

“--little bastard had more fight than we expected.”

A cruel laugh. “How else could he survive fucking a Witcher?”

“Shut it, Pavel. Help me get this damn mare under control.” A shriek of rage that was more familiar than any human’s voice and Geralt had a sword in his hand before the thought crossed his mind.

Steel for humans. Silver for monsters.

What should he draw for a combination of both?

The first man let out a yelp of panic when Geralt stalked out of the trees with his weapon drawn and angled for his first attack. Roach reared in a vicious lunge that sent another villager stumbling to his knees and scrambling away from the enraged mare. She was streaked with blood and muck, twigs threaded through the chocolate of her mane and eyes white with panic and rage. Thankfully there was no sign of any injuries on her dark coat.

It was the sight of the lute tied to her side that made Geralt’s blood run cold.

Gold eyes narrowed with barely restrained violence on the four brawny men who were shifting nervously to try to surround him. His voice was a growl any wolf would be proud of. 

_ “Where is he?” _

Pavel, the man who’d been rifling through the packs Jaskier would have never allowed anyone to touch, looked between the Witcher and his friends. They’d each moved around the Witcher and clutched at a series of makeshift and cobbled together weapons with the confidence of those who were used to brute force getting them what they wanted. An axe. A rusted scythe. A roughly carved cudgel.

Apparently Pavel would be the fool who would attempt to stand between a Witcher and what was his.

He sneered, “You should’ve stayed with the vampires, Witcher.”

“They’re as dead as you will be if you don’t answer my question.”

The men shifted once more, as eager for blood as they were afraid of it. A man to his right tightened his grip on the wooden handle of his axe until it creaked. “We don’ want no trouble with a Witcher.”

“Speak for yourself, Joff,” Pavel spat, “I have no problem spilling a demon’s blood.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but--

Geralt was already moving.

The scythe wielder was the first to go--he couldn’t afford to allow the longer ranged weapon to be used against him. He poured speed into the leap that closed the distance between them and slammed the full weight of his body into the aged wooden handle until it snapped. His sword sank deep into the soft weight of his stomach and Geralt let the momentum jerk the blade up and across in a move that would allow no prisoners.

His scream of agony was drowned out by the cries of mixed rage and adrenaline from his friends. Geralt spun, neatly avoiding a slash from the axe, and yanking his sword free of the dead villager and letting the hilt smash into the nose of the man at his back. He was rewarded with a crack and spray of blood that he followed to arc his blade into the joint of the next man’s shoulder and neck.

When he turned to Pavel, the man was brave or foolish enough to attempt to run from a Witcher’s wrath. Even cowardice could not save him from the knife Geralt threw like it was a sigil for his revenge. Geralt watched the body fall with a snarl--it was too quick an end to appease the beast in his blood--but he had more pressing concerns to consider.

Slowly, he shifted his focus to the last human still breathing in the courtyard. Now that the haze of battle was lifting, he recognized the villager--Joff--who’d tried to avoid the fighting earlier. He cradled his bloodied and broken nose and fixed wide, panicked eyes on the approaching Witcher.

Geralt reached down and hauled him to his feet so he could glare down at him. “Speak.”

“I--It was Pavel, s-sir,” he babbled, “he was wanting the purse and the coin he was sure a Witcher like you would carry. He figured if we didn’t tell you how many vamps were up there, you would die and we could walk away with your stuff with no one the wiser.”

“And the bard? What of him?”

Perhaps understanding for the first time what the source of Geralt’s rage was, the man paled even further. “It was nothing--nothing personal, I swear! We just wanted to get him out of the way and--”

Geralt’s voice was sharp enough to send birds shrieking from their nests. “And  _ what _ ? Where is he?”

Joff’s eyes flooded with tears and mixed with the blood streaking down his cheeks. “He--he fell, sir. It was an accident--he kept shoving at Tomas and Tomas just pushed him.”

The thought of what the villager was telling him didn’t seem to sink in past the frantic hope of finding wherever Jaskier was now. 

He had to be alive--that was the only reality Geralt was willing to accept.

Grabbing Joff by the back of his shirt, he shoved the man bodily forward. “Show me.”

“Sir--”

_ “Show me!” _

They walk with the same fervor of men chased by the hounds of hell. Geralt is the wolf snapping at his heels as they move through the trees, ignoring the sounds of the breaking underbrush and fleeing animals. Reality seems to fade in the distance between where he is now and where Jaskier was waiting for him.

Then they are there.

A small break in the trees that reveals the kind of ravine Jaskier would rewrite as some epic chasm or mouth to certain doom. Even at a distance, Geralt can see the gleam and tumble of sharp rocks against its side. The teeth for the monsters stalking the Witcher always--death.

He stepped past the staggering villager with little care for whether the man would try another attack. All of his focus was on the open air and the space where his bard should be and--

A bright pinprick of color, nearly invisible against the monotonous grey of the rocks.

There was an analogy there, he was sure, but Geralt couldn’t seem to think past the body lying still and silent and forgotten there.

He made a sound. Something raw and aching in his chest that made Joff whimper. His eyes stayed fixed there, mouth forming an unspoken please.

_ Please. Please not him. _

_ Please don’t do this to me. _

_ I won’t survive this. _

Time went flat and angular, punctuated by the ragged breaths that refused to stop heaving out of his chest. He wished that he could go back and keep himself from taking this job. He wished he had told Jaskier how he felt instead of hiding the truth behind grunts and longing looks. 

He wished he could hold him one more time. 

Geralt stared down into the ravine and the glittering rocks below and wished the rumors of the Witcher’s missing emotions were true. He wished for a lot of things, then, staring down at the smear of blue silk stained red. 

None of them came true. 

Slowly, he turned and pulled his sword free from his sheath. Joff tried to run, but it was useless. The sword cut through him as easily. And he kept cutting until there was nothing left of the man who’d watched Jaskier fall and did nothing. 

He wished it made him feel better.

He wished it made him feel anything at all. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Geralt lost time.

He must have returned to camp--to Roach--but he didn’t recognize the movement until a familiar warm breath gusted over his face. The mare nudged him again, forcing him to reach out and steady himself before she knocked him over. Blood stained the saddle and packs along her side, making him think of--

Bright red against dark rocks. The slight shiver of movement from one of those ridiculous feathered caps he--

Geralt came too in the center of the old camp, one hand tightened to cramping around the hilt of his weapon. He took a deep breath and forced himself to move through one of Vesemir’s old lessons to bring his heart rate back under control. It did nothing to keep the jagged shards of guilt and sorrow from burrowing deeper beneath skin and bones. 

The silence around him--once cherished and coveted--now ached like a bruise.

This was why he’d tried to warn the bard away. He didn’t want someone to need him and go to their end wishing that a Witcher was capable of something more than just killing. Blood and death followed always in his shadow, despair walking at his side like a faithful pet. Alone, he could mitigate the damage to his semi-immortal body. He’d been  _ fine _ on his own--but Jaskier…

Jaskier had always seen the light that created the shadows of his past. He’d been committed to his belief that Geralt wasn’t something to be afraid of. That through laughter and song, he could create a new life for the Butcher of Blaviken.

And he’d died for it.

His stomach curdled at the thought and he spent a long moment trying not to think about the body lying at the base of the ravine--too far and too damaged to do anything more than wish for some way to turn back time and prevent it from happening. 

_ I’m so sorry, Jaskier. _

_ I was supposed to keep you safe. _

Now all he could do was gather what was left of his supplies and loot the bodies of the villagers before he returned to the village. And wish the stories about Witchers having no emotions were true.

Roach, seeming to sense his mood, stayed close on the long walk down the trail towards the village. The exhaustion from the fight mixed with his heartache to create a numb haze. His feet moved forward mechanically even if his heart had been left far behind. The firm, no-nonsense voice in his mind supplied a list of tasks that he needed to finish before he let himself collapse.

Take care of Roach.

Collect his reward.

Try to outrun the nightmares.

It was habit to take the lute that had been carelessly tossed aside near the dying fire. He stroked a finger over the well oiled wood and stared down at the familiar sight. It looked odd in his hands, but he would never leave the bard’s treasure here alone in the woods. It deserved better. Jaskier’s pack went on Roach’s back as well, taking his place in the saddle. The burn of movement would distract him from the thoughts of what he’d lost.

They walked back to the village in silence, a funeral march without a body to mourn. Part of him wanted to return to the ravine to try to recover Jaskier. He deserved better than being left to rot in the middle of nowhere. He’d hate to be alone, even in death.

By the time he’d reached the outskirts of the quiet village, Geralt had the beginnings of a grim plan to return to the cliffside with rope and climbing gear so he could bring Jaskier home. The gory bag of proof of his kill was beginning to stink strongly enough that even Roach was shying away from it. Vampires always rotted quickly in the sunlight and he wasn’t about to let the old villager serving as mayor attempt to keep him from his pay. Not after all it had cost him.

Geralt ignored the curious stares of people making their way through their morning chores and preparing for the day. They moved out of his way like sheep in the wake of a wolf. He lips curled into a painful grimace at the reminder of Jaskier’s favorite title for him--the White Wolf. It felt like the bard was haunting him even in death. Maybe he always would.

He couldn’t decide if he hated or relished the idea.

The mayor jerked upright at the sound of Geralt’s fist on the door, followed immediately after by the Witcher himself. He paled at the sight of the bloody bag in his hands and the missing members of the search party.

“W-Witcher. You’ve returned victorious, I see,” he said, trying to appear as though he was happy to see him.

Geralt didn’t respond, just tossed the disgusting bag onto the nearby table. Part of him took pleasure in the way the bag dripped viscera and gore onto the previously clean surface. 

“Ah, yes, I see. I suppose you want that reward now?” The old man’s hands shook as he turned to fish out a bag of coins from a locked chest. It took several minutes to uncover enough to pay out the amount they’d promised. He turned to give it over, but frowned when he looked back at Geralt, “Where, uh, where are the rest of your party?”

“You mean the men you sent as guides?” His voice was little more than a growl as he advanced, “The ones who waited until I was busy killing those vampires to try to steal my gear?”

The weight of the knife in his hand felt like cool comfort. It matched neatly with the rage in his heart and the fear in the mayor’s eyes.

He let that fury flood the void left by Jaskier until he was nearly vibrating with it. “Did you know what they planned?”

“I...I, of course not!” the human stammered, eyes darting between Geralt’s knife and the door behind him. “Pavel was just meant to show you where the nest was!”

“And then gut me in the night when I slept.” Geralt moved closer until he could feel the man’s heartbeat fluttering against his pale skin. “Unfortunately, he didn’t succeed.”

“Then, then there’s no reason for bad blood between us--just take the money and go!”

The knife teased a long line of red along his jawline and Geralt watched the sluggish liquid passively. It was the first time he felt every inch the monster of the stories. There was nothing left of Jaskier’s White Wolf now.

Only the Butcher remained.

* * *

It was nearing dark by the time Geralt walked in to the village’s tiny tavern. He only noticed the time because it meant another night would pass before he could recover what was left of Jaskier. The villagers scurried away from him, frantic and panicked at the sight of the blood dripping off his vambraces. By the time he approached the terrified bartender, the entire place was emptied.

He tossed the bag of coin onto the counter and reached over the barkeep to grab a mostly full bottle of liquid. The man opened and closed his mouth as though he were trying to form words, but Geralt just grunted at him and walked to the table furthest away from the window.

“Don’t let anyone in if you value their lives,” he said and listened to the man run out the front door.

He ripped off the cork with his teeth and took a long pull of the bottle’s content, relishing the burn. A Witcher’s metabolism was quick enough that it was nearly impossible to get drunk as humans could, but, with any luck, he might be able to at least become drowsy enough to pass out for an hour or two. Realistically, he knew it would be a long time before he managed to sleep without the familiar cadence of Jaskier’s snores to keep him company just like he knew leading Roach back up the mountain trail would end with another one of the beings he was meant to protect being injured.

When that bottle was emptied, he grabbed several more from the shelves. This time it was a little less bitter, a little more warmth to soothe his aching soul. He’d never understood why so many humans wasted their fortunes and lives away with the brew, but now he could see the appeal. The world around him was beginning to blur around the edges and the ache in his chest felt far away. He chased the sensation with another long pull and stared down at the table.

He  _ hated _ the silence around him--it was a glaring reminder of what life would be like now that he was alone. 

If Jaskier were here, the place would be filled to the brim with laughing patrons and the sound of his bawdy lyrics. Geralt would spend the night trying not to smile into his cup to keep the onlookers from realizing that the vicious Witcher in their midst was just as bewitched as they were with the bard. Jaskier would look over at him and Geralt would feel younger than he’d ever been allowed to be, all pounding heart and flushing cheeks. He would give him the smile that Geralt liked to believe was for him alone and return to his prancing--never realizing the effect he had on the older mutant.

Now, he sat alone and grieved for the taste of happiness he hadn’t protected.

It wasn’t as though Jaskier was the first human he’d lost in his lifetime. He’d seen many men and women he’d respected or even liked, but none had burrowed as deeply into his being like Jaskier. He was the first to look beyond Geralt’s gruff words and scarred body to learn the secrets the lay beneath--and stayed even after he saw the darkness there. Moving forward now felt impossible. The Witcher had known from the start that one day he would watch Jaskier die, but it had felt like an intangible future far away. It was more likely the bard would come to his senses and settle down with some lusty barmaid somewhere long before the fine lines around his eyes became wrinkles.

Geralt had never given much thought to his own enhanced lifetime. Humans came and went as easily as monsters beneath his swords. It wasn’t until his alcohol-riddled mind tried to summon up an image of a smiling, happy Jaskier and could only relive the tiny, broken body at the bottom of the gorge that he realized the insidious nature of his own memory. 

One day he would forget what Jaskier looked like. His mind would blur the color of his eyes into the same blue as a stranger on the street or the sweet tenor of his voice with a passing larl.

The thought made nausea burn in his throat. He reached for the bottle again and growled irritably when he saw it was empty. The other empty bottles clinked and rattled when he shoved away from the table. He would have to hunt down more if he was going to keep up the fog that was already slipping out of his grasp. Maybe if he drank more quickly, he might forget what he was drinking for.

Raised voices called out from outside the tavern which Geralt barely noticed aside from noting it must have lured the bartender away from his task of helping Geralt attempt to kill his liver. He grunted with the ground shifted beneath his feet, reaching out quickly to brace himself on the bar’s scarred wood. Shoddy workmanship, he thought distantly. He hadn’t noticed the floor being so uneven when he’d walked in.

“--don’t understand! I  _ know _ him!”

Geralt hmm’d under his breath in satisfaction when he retrieved a bottle hidden behind the lock box below the counter. It looked like the bartender would need to order more liquor soon. The thought made Geralt huff out an approximation of a laugh--maybe it would come in time for him to chase away the hangover tomorrow promised.

“He killed the mayor! He’s a murderer!”

Another thump at the door and Geralt found himself reaching for a knife almost casually. A bar fight might be just the thing he needed to distract him from what was left of his fuzzy mind. He launched the blade with a little more effort than usual and frowned when it landed awkwardly against the wood of the door and fell to the floor with a clang.

“--wouldn’t just kill someone--I mean, maybe if they annoyed him--but definitely not if they kept the bargain they had. He isn’t a killer!”

The voices outside raised in pitch and fervor and Geralt scowled, one hand on his new bottle of alcohol and the other braced on the counter in case he stumbled again. His vision tilted oddly at the corners, but he remained upright while the door was finally forced open to reveal the bartender wielding a club like a magician’s staff, a few terrified farmers, and--

“Gods, Geralt--are you drunk?”

Geralt blinked slowly at the phantom in front of him. 

Jaskier stood in the dying firelight, blue eyes wide as he stared at the Witcher. The villagers around him shifted anxiously when the silence stretched between the two of them. A woman on the edge of the crowd darted forward to grab his dagger from the ground and clutched it to her chest.

The Witcher didn’t dare to breathe, mentally thanking gods he never acknowledge for whatever magic in these bottles that allowed this hallucination to take place. He knew every bit of emotion was emblazoned on his face, unable to summon up the energy needed to hide them beneath his usual mask of indifference. His eyes raked over the bard hungrily, taking in the same blue outfit--ripped and stained now--and the abrud tangle of his hair. He looked exactly as he had the day Geralt left him.

His eyes burned painfully and he could feel his slow heart struggling to combat the frantic joy clashing with gut deep sorrow in him. Whether it was a gift or a curse, this moment, he wasn’t sure. One last look at his heart before it rotted away in his chest.

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” he breathed. The word tasted like salvation and damnation in one.

“What happened?” Jaskier asked, stepping away from the startled humans and ignoring their noises of quiet warning. “You look terrible--was it the vampires? Are you hurt?”

Whatever strength that had kept Geralt moving after the battle and the loss of everything he loved seemed to leave him then. He wobbled, slumping dangerously to the side. The bottle in his hand dropped to the floor with a splatter of cool liquid. He would have fallen too if it weren’t for the strong, familiar body that crossed the distance in a burst of speed.

The scent of him--sweat and blood and something uniquely Jaskier--flooded Geralt’s fuzzy senses and he made a raw sound of grief. Geralt buried his nose in the soft skin of Jaskier’s throat, closing his eyes to focus all his power in keeping this unexpected phantom by his side for as long as possible.

Please. Please don’t leave me.

He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until Jaskier’s hands tightened on the back of his leather jerkin and the bard began to pat him over for injuries a little more frantically. “Geralt? Oh gods, were you poisoned? Was there something in the whiskey?”

The terror in his voice was enough to drag words out of somewhere deep in Geralt’s chest. “You--you’re dead. I saw you.” Confusion thickened the words into almost a slur and Geralt clutched at Jaskier like he could keep him here through sheer force of will. “You died. They killed you.”

The truth tasted like poison.

Somewhere nearby, he could hear the villagers begin to slip back out the door--no doubt because of the glare Jaskier sent towards them over his white head. None of his ire read in the way he was smoothing his hands over Geralt’s back and urging him towards a chair. Geralt was grateful for the silence that fell in their wake--it made it easier to listen to the heartbeat that felt like it was rebuilding his world brick by brick.

Jaskier hummed some familiar tune under his breath and gave a soft huff of fond amusement when Geralt made it clear he had no intention of releasing his hold on the smaller man. He leaned heavily against him, letting the lassitude of the drink keep him from the usual reticence he felt about showing so much honest emotion. 

“Oh, my love,” he whispered into Geralt’s ear and the Witcher realized he was dangerously close to sobbing like a child at the emotion in the familiar voice, “I would never leave you. You’re stuck with me from now on.”

The lie felt like a knife twisting in his heart, but Geralt couldn’t summon the energy to protest. He would cling to this fever dream for as long as he could.

He let himself be led away from the empty tavern room and down the hallway toward the rooms for rent. He tried not to think about the way his vision was still blurred by the booze and his flagging energy. Or the way he could feel his metabolism working through the effects of the drink. It wouldn’t be long before Jaskier disappeared with it.

The soft brush of cotton sheets against his knees helped ease the slow slide of both men into the old mattress. Jaskier curled tightly against Geralt’s side, whispering a constant stream of reassurances that soaked into Geralt’s skin like sunlight to a flower. 

“I’m okay, Geralt, I promise. They didn’t see me get away--I hid just like you’re always telling me to. That big brute--what was his name? Tomas? Tuck?--tried to grab my hat, can you imagine? Just yanked it right off my head like it wasn’t designed just for me at that delicious little store in Novigrad. I told him you’d stab him for that alone and he shoved me--”

Jaskier paused at the raw sound of anguish from Geralt and stroked a hand over his back. “Sorry, sorry. He didn’t think I’d pull him over that cliff with me. People always assume I’m weaker than I am. I guess it doesn’t help that I’m always around you, huh?”

“How?” Geralt rasped, swallowing down the multitude of questions in favor of the one that mattered most. 

The bard seemed to notice what he was really asking and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, drawing him closer until his head was right over the steadily beating heart. It soothed some of the raw edges digging in his mind.

“As soon as you left, I knew they were going to try something. I told them I was going to the bathroom to keep them away from Roach and, of course, that big hairy brute came crashing after me almost immediately. We fought--he ripped my second best tunic, the bastard--and he tried to shove me over the edge. I caught hold of a root and managed to hold tight while he got reacquainted with gravity.” Geralt tightened his arms around Jaskier’s lean chest. 

“I heard the others come up after him so I decided to make myself scarce until you got back from the hunt,” Jaskier continued, “Then it was just a matter of trying to find my way back to the village so I could meet up with you when you came for the reward.”

Geralt leaned back enough to glare at Jaskier, mind finally going clear with an indignant spark. “You thought I would just  _ leave _ you?”

Jaskier wilted a little at his expression. “I mean--” he licked his lips a little anxiously, “you’ve made it clear that you didn’t choose for me to follow you as far as I have. I just thought...maybe it wouldn’t bother you all that much.”

For a beat there was only silence as Geralt attempted to process the vulnerable tone of Jaskier’s voice with the rising flood of relief as the alcohol slowly gave way to understanding. 

His bard was alive. Alive and apparently completely unaware of how completely he had invaded every facet of Geralt’s being.

“Bardling,” he rasped and watched with satisfaction when Jaskier’s eyes darkened at the raw emotion in his voice, “I would never leave you willingly.”

“But you--”

“Can be an idiot,” Geralt finished for him, “and say things I regret later. But I don’t want to let another moment pass where I regret not telling you the way I truly feel.”

His traced a finger across the bruise blooming dark and vicious against Jaskier’s cheek. The bard’s eyes fluttered as he drew in a ragged breath and seemed to struggle to control the heartbeat that was now racing beneath Geralt’s cheek. 

“Geralt, you’re drunk. Don’t say something you’ll regret. Don’t...don’t make me wish for something I can’t have.”

“I don’t want to keep traveling with you like we have for years,” Geralt began and tried not to wince at the way Jaskier’s face went taut and miserable,”I want more.” 

“I don’t understand.”

Geralt banished his hesitation with the reminder of the bloody speck at the bottom of the ravine. “I’m in love with you,” he said in a rush, “I’ve been in love you for years--even if I didn’t want to admit it.”

Jaskier stared at him, eyes bright with the same emotion that sent Geralt’s heart racing in response.

“I want this. With you.” He let his hands tangle in the dark chocolate of his curls so he could tilt Jaskier’s face towards him, “I want forever, if you’ll give it to me.”

He leaned in, balancing his weight on the mattress and moving slowly enough that he could relish the way the bard’s eyes fluttered and went wide. Tension brewed, sweet and sinful, in the air between them. 

“Forever?” Jaskier whispered, fragile hope gleaming like starlight on his face.

Geralt moved closer, tasting the anticipation shivering in the space between. He paused a hair’s breath away from full lips to make his wish. His oath.

“Forever.”

* * *

Later, much later, when the nightmares jerked him away from a fitful sleep, he felt gentle hands curl impossibly tighter around him. 

“Shh,” a familiar voice whispered, “I’m here. I have you.”

He smiled softly at the thought, tasting the reality of a wish come true. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Oof. 
> 
> Your comments and kudos always help my muse work overtime. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you enjoyed this one-shot, come over to my page and check out some of my other stories for more angst, whumps, and romance between these two weirdos. :)


End file.
